“That’s wonderful,” Nicole said. “But I don’t know about tonight. I’m with my boyfriend at the hospital. He was shot and hasn’t regained consciousness.”
“I’m so sorry. I hope he comes ‘round soon. If you are able to come, you don’t have to stay long. Just meet us for a quick drink. I know how much Abigail wants to thank you and say goodbye. They’re flying home tomorrow.”
“I’ll see how it goes.”
A little later, feeling restless, Nicole stood to stretch her legs. She left Reinhardt’s room and went back to the room with the public computer. Checking the Daily News, she was relieved to find herself still unidentified in their story. She also checked her email. To her surprise, there was a message from the Ukraine Orphans website, where she’d put up the notice for Abigail under the name of Alina Halichenko.
She followed the link to the site and looked at the message. It was in Ukrainian. She downloaded a translation app and copied the message into it. To her astonishment, it was from Natalia Halchenko, Abigail’s sister.
Darling Alina:
I was adopted by a distant cousin and brought to Boston when I was 13. I moved to Los Angeles when I was 19, hoping to find you. I’ve been working as a waitress here for three years, and I’ve been looking for you, Alina, but I don’t know your new name. I have sad news. Our brother, Oleksander, died from a drug overdose five years ago. I’m struggling because I earn so little. But I’m taking classes to improve my English. I want to go to college so I can become a social worker and help orphans like we were.
Remember Klara, the stuffed bunny you loved so much? You left her behind, but I’ve kept her for you all these years.
My dream is to find you. You are my only family.
Love,
Natalia
When Nicole looked up from the message, she saw that Reinhardt’s eyes were open. He tried to sit up, only to fall back on his pillow.
“Dizzy.” He looked around the room, then at Nicole. “What am I doing here?”
Nicole reached for the buzzer to summon a nurse. “You were shot and lost a lot of blood.”
“Shot? For God’s sake! Last I remember, we were watching TV and eating popcorn.”
The nurse arrived.
“He woke up.” Nicole said. “Although, he doesn’t remember what happened.”
“The memory loss is normal,” the nurse said. “This is great news.” She asked him his name, the date, and the name of the prime minister.
He answered correctly, except that he gave yesterday’s date. This was understandable. In terms of his memory, it still was yesterday. Nicole sat with him, holding his hand. He dozed on and off until it was time for her to meet the Fletchers.
She left his bloodstained jacket on the chair and took the elevator to the lobby. Outside the glass wall that fronted the hospital was a substantial crowd. Security guards had cordoned off the entrance to control visitors, allowing some people in, while turning others away. Those refused entry were reporters, a much larger crowd of them than when she got there early this morning.
Seeing them made Nicole turn back to the elevator. Its doors were already closing. She went to another that had just arrived, and got in. She pressed the button for P1, which she assumed was the parking garage. She shrunk back into a corner and pulled out the burner phone, planning to order a ride. Only when she saw the cheap black plastic case did she remember it was a barebones disposable model, unable to run the Uber app. Up ahead, she noticed a door that said Parking Management. She hurried over and knocked. There was a long delay before a small, ancient man opened the door, leaning on a cane. He looked annoyed at being interrupted. Or perhaps he was simply weary from the effort of getting up to respond to her knock.
She explained her dilemma with the reporters. “Could I please use your phone to call for a ride?”
“No need,” he said. “I’ll have the parking attendant drive you. He’s been sitting around all day. It will do him good to get out. They’ve closed the garage because of all those bloody reporters. Morris! This young lady needs a ride.”
The parking attendant got out of a parked car, a tiny, weathered Renault. He was young, not yet out of his teens. His white-blond hair was cut so close that he appeared almost as bald as his boss.
When the old man explained why Nicole had to leave the garage unobserved, the attendant smiled.
“Sure.” He gestured toward the Renault. “That’s it over there.” He opened the passenger door. “Hold on. I’ll clear off this seat for you.”
The seat—in fact, the whole interior—was cluttered with soft drink cups, takeaway containers, and other trash. He swept the clutter from her seat onto the floor, and she climbed in.
“This car is pretty low to the ground,” he said. “You’ll have to scrunch way down so those reporters don’t see you when we drive out. Where do you want to go?”
“Gordon Ramsey’s restaurant. But we’ll have to stop at my flat first so I can change.” Nicole gave him the address of the building she used in her indirect route to Reinhardt’s flat.
She bent over until her chest was resting on her thighs as they emerged from the garage. She could hear the hubbub of the reporters demanding to be let in the hospital’s front door.
One of them shouted, “This is a fokking public hospital, innit? I pay yer wages, don’t I? You got no right to lock us out.”
Only after they’d driven several blocks, and Morris said, “It’s safe now,” did she sit up. When he stopped at their destination, Nicole got out and jogged through the building and down the alley to Reinhardt’s flat. She quickly brushed her hair and changed into the one dress she’d brought along and the strappy heels. She was soon back in the car. Traffic wasn’t too heavy, and they arrived at the restaurant twenty minutes later. As she got out of Morris’s car, she handed him a twenty pound note.
Morris’s eyes grew wide. “Thank you! I say, if you’re going back to the hospital, I can pick you up.”
“That would be great. Give me your mobile number.”
He grabbed a piece of paper from the floor, scribbled on it, and handed it to her.
“When do you think you’ll need me?”
“In about an hour.”
Morris beamed. “Cool,” he said, sounding like an American teenager.
Nineteen
As soon as Abigail saw Nicole walk into the dining room, she got up from the table and hurried over to greet her with a hug. It was hard to believe that when they’d first met, Abigail had loathed her, regarding her as a spy sent by her parents. She’d only turned up at the pub in hopes of conning Nicole out of some money. At the time, Abigail had no intention of moving to Nicole’s hotel or flying back to L.A. with her.
“I don’t know how to thank you,” Abigail said. “You found the murderer and got me out of that awful place.”
“I didn’t do it single handedly. Gemma here, Reinhardt, the police, and even Sacha helped.” As Nicole took her place at the table, she flashed her dimpled smile. “Now I have some really good news.”
Abigail noticed that her parents, who she still couldn’t bring herself to call Mom and Dad, looked perturbed, as if they were suspicious of what Nicole’s news might be. Abigail felt her old resentments bubble up. Why did they always manage to ruin anything that might make her happy?
“It’s the most amazing thing.” Nicole pulled out her phone and flipped through her email. When she located what she was searching for, she looked up. “After you told me about your sister and brother, I put your name up on a website for people looking for relatives they’d lost track of because of poor record keeping at Ukrainian orphanages and other institutions. Today I got an email from your sister, Natalia. I was going to read it aloud, but I think you should see it first since it’s addressed to you. It was in Ukrainian, but here’s the translation.
Abigail trembled as Nicole handed her the phone. After reading the email, she flushed and tears welled up. She read it again, then once more, this time aloud. Sh
e paused a moment before reading about Oleksander’s death, but brightened at the words, My dream is to find you. You are my only family.
Abigail looked at her parents, considering what to say. They hadn’t commented on the message, and it was impossible to tell what they were thinking. What she was about to ask would take a huge commitment on their part. She didn’t know if they were even capable of such generosity.
“Do you think—”
In the past her parents often not only refused, but got angry when she made a major request. She hated to ruin the evening.
“Tell us,” Serena said. “I promised you things will be different from now on. Remember? We might say no, but you shouldn’t be afraid to ask.”
“Could we help Natalia?” Abigail said. “I mean, think how great it would be if she could stay with us. She wouldn’t have to work, so she’d have time to prepare for college. I’ll be starting next year. Maybe she’ll be ready, too, and we can be classmates.”
Her parents looked at each other.
“She can stay in my room,” Abigail went on. “I’ll keep it clean and do extra chores. She won’t be any trouble.”
“May I point out that you’re hoping to go to Wesleyan,” her mother said. “It’s hard to get into that school, and it’s very expensive.”
“I don’t have to go there,” Abigail pleaded. “I could go to a state school. I just want to be with my sister.”
Abigail felt herself getting mad when she saw her mother’s expression—the frown, the lips pursed in disapproval. “Natalia is, what, twenty-two now?” Serena said. “You haven’t seen or communicated with her since you were six. You don’t know anything about her. You may not even like the person she’s become.”
Abigail rolled her eyes. “I’d love Natalia no matter what. She’s blood. Do you even understand what that means?” She instantly regretted her words, realizing it didn’t help her case.
But Serena seemed determined to avoid an argument. Her expression softened.
“I do understand, Abigail. Believe me. How about this? We’ll meet Natalia and see how it goes—”
“Do you realize what you’re opening us up to, Serena?” Abigail’s father said. “We don’t know this person. She could be an imposter. She could be a thief. She could be anything.”
“Of course we’ll have to confirm that she is who she says she is,” Serena said. “I think that’s reasonable. Don’t you, Abigail?”
“I’d know my sister anywhere. And she wrote about the toy bunny I used to sleep with. Who else would know about Klara or remember her name?” Abigail paused and looked at both parents. “But if that would make you okay about her—like, sure.”
“All right,” her mother said. “If she is who she says and you still want to help her, we’ll consider it on one condition.”
Here it comes. They were going to dodge out of it, like they always did. Abigail was silent. She could tell Serena was waiting for her to ask what the condition was, and she wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction.
Finally her mother said, “When your senior year is up, you’ll go on to Wesleyan or one of the other top-rated schools you’ve applied for. Your sister can’t be expected—” She paused to rephrase what she’d been about to say. “Natalia can accept whatever school she qualifies for. But you have to be realistic. It’s doubtful she’ll get into a top school when she hasn’t yet completed her college requirements and is just learning English. She’ll probably need extra time to catch up. But here’s the good news. Wherever she gets in, she’ll probably be eligible for a work-study program and student aid. If she gets that far, we’ll help with the rest.”
Abigail smiled and leaned over to hug her mother. “Thanks, M-m-Mom. That’s more than generous of you and Dad. You’ve made me so happy.”
Nicole stood. “I’ve got to get back to the hospital.”
“Hospital?” Abigail said. “Why?”
When Nicole explained, Abigail, her parents, and Gemma all begged her to stay for a glass of the champagne the waiter had just delivered to the table. He’d also brought the coke Abigail had ordered.
They all clinked glasses, and Abigail proposed the toast.
“To Nicole and Gemma. Thank you for getting me out of the terrible mess I’d made of things. Especially to you, Nicole, for finding Natalia and giving me something wonderful to celebrate.”
Twenty
When Morris from the parking garage picked Nicole up in front of the restaurant, he told her the media’s presence at the hospital had thinned out. Nicole had hoped they would have given up and gone home by now. As they entered the hospital compound, she once again doubled-over, head down, to avoid being seen. Morris drove into the parking garage and dropped her off at the elevator. She gave him another twenty pounds and thanked him profusely.
“If you ever need another ride—”
“Sure thing! I’ve got your number.” She got in the elevator and pushed the button for Reinhardt’s floor.
She knocked on his door before walking in. To her surprise, he was awake and alert, propped up in bed, reading the paper.
“Well, Annie Oakley, you’ve definitely left your mark on London.”
“Annie Oakley? What are you talking about?” She took the paper from his hands.
The top story bore a big headline. VICTIMS OF HUMAN TRAFFICKING GANG FREED. Next to it was a sidebar with a smaller head. Annie Oakley Saves the Day. This article named her as the good Samaritan who used a pistol to kill two men armed with automatic weapons.
Damn it,” she said. “I hate this kind of publicity. Where did they get my name and why are they comparing me to Annie Oakley?”
“It started with the tabloid that first figured out who you are. As an American, you know about Oakley. But you may not realize she’s famous here, too. She performed with the Buffalo Bill show at Queen Victoria’s Diamond Jubilee. The media is thrilled that a woman was able to shoot the bad guys and save a wounded law enforcement officer and six maidens in distress.”
“But Annie Oakley wasn’t a westerner. I read her biography. She was born in Ohio and never traveled west of there.”
“Details like that never stop the tabloids.”
Nicole pulled a chair over to his bedside. He turned on the TV and they watched the end of the news hour. It featured a prolonged weather report, with cold and rain predicted in just about every corner of the UK. The newsreaders devoted the last five minutes to a serious conversation about the day’s events. It was a contrast to American news shows, which often ended with upbeat chitchat cooked up by a roomful of writers.
When the show ended, Reinhardt channel surfed until he found a news show that was just beginning, with a rerun of the police press conference.
This time the news reader identified Nicole by name, crediting the Daily News tabloid as his source. A news clip taken when she first arrived at the hospital showed her wearing the bloodied jacket.
After pointing out the bloodstains, the newsreader turned to his partner.
“Was she wounded, or is the blood from—” He looked past the cameras, presumably to the producer. “What was she doing at hospital? Was she wounded and seeking treatment, or was she visiting someone? Any word?” He shook his head and said, into the microphone, “No information about that. We’ll keep you posted.”
The show devoted a few minutes to Nicole’s background, mentioning two cases she was involved in that went viral in US tabloids. It ended—none too soon for Nicole—with a photograph of Annie Oakley looking down the barrel of a rifle pointed at whoever was taking the picture.
“It’s not often London is visited by a female sharpshooter who rescues young women from a terrible fate,” the news presenter concluded.
Nicole reached over and turned it off. “Oh, my God. That was awful! Why did he have to point out the blood on my coat? It was yours, by the way, from when I tried to stop your bleeding. It had nothing to do with the shootings. They made me look like your typical gun-happy American, fresh f
rom a shootout.”
“Or a superhero.” Reinhardt seemed to find her predicament amusing.
But Nicole was fuming. How could she have allowed herself to become the focus of the media again?
“I thought you had rules against violating an individual’s privacy,” she said.
“We do. But these stories don’t deal with your personal history, relationships, or sex life. And they’re using information that’s already been published in the US.”
“Well, it’s not funny. I feel humiliated.”
“I’m sorry. You’re right. It’s not funny. We’ll keep a low profile until this thing blows over.” He patted the bed. “Come here.”
As soon as she was sitting next to him, he put his uninjured arm around her. She rested her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes. After a few minutes, she felt calmer and got up.
“Would you mind handing me the pen and paper on the shelf over there?” he said.
With his right arm wounded, Reinhardt used his left hand to laboriously write something. He handed the paper to Nicole. It was a phone number that looked as if it had been written by a first grader.
“It’s freezing out,” he said. “The jacket you were wearing is ruined, so we need to have your trench coat sent over from my flat. That’s the mobile number of the woman who handles personal errands for me. Call her and tell her to bring your coat, as well as my own, my brown herringbone tweed sportscoat, a white shirt, a pair of tan trousers, shoes, socks, and underwear. Tell her I said it’s an emergency. We need these things tonight or first thing tomorrow.”
Nicole made the call, then asked the nurse to have a cot brought to Reinhardt’s room for her to sleep on. But when bedtime came, she was too hopped up to sleep. Her body refused to relax on the narrow hospital cot. Now that she had time to reflect on what had happened, she felt wretched that she’d taken two lives, no matter how evil those men were. But she’d had no choice. It was either them or her, Reinhardt, and Sacha.
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